


Spirit of the Season

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Depression, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:38:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his first Christmas after Afghanistan, Watson struggles with his spirits and the season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit of the Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[翻译]Spirit of the Season（福华原著向）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150349) by [yuanyuan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuanyuan/pseuds/yuanyuan)



> Written for donutsweeper, who gave me the following prompt: Some sort of Watson whumpage prezzie please! Something related to the old war wound or resulting illness perhaps?
> 
> Warnings: references to injury and depression

 

December is supposed to be a merry month. It is Christmastide, the holiday season, filled with parties, music, celebration, and family. Or such is the idea.

But for me, recently returned from war and disaster, still engaged in the ongoing battle to restore whatever remnants of my shattered health I could, December meant a cruel, damp chill that settled into my bones and made my old wounds ache nearly as fiercely as when I’d first arrived in London. I was constantly cold, despite wearing the warmest clothing I owned. The bitter weather kept me from any real sort of exercise or change of scenery, for I could not walk far, and my finances could not bear the strain of extra cab-fare. As for parties or merriment, I had few acquaintances in London, and those I did have were largely occupied elsewhere. I received few invitations, and between my health and my circumstances, had to decline those that I did receive. It was, in short, a bleak, miserable month, full of reminders of what I did not have: health, family, or security.

And then there was Holmes.

I had scarcely seen him in weeks. He was deeply involved in some case, one that he did not care to speak of to me in the few instances where we were both present in our rooms for any length of time. Mostly he was gone by the time I arose (slothfully late, but between the cold and what little restless, broken sleep I could manage with the renewed pain of my injures, it could hardly be otherwise), and did not return until long after I had retired to whatever comfort and rest I could find in my cold, narrow bed. There had been several instances where he had not returned to Baker Street at all, not for days at a time. I might have been alarmed, had this not happened before – and had I not been too miserable myself to scarcely notice anything beyond my bleak mood. As it was, I made mild inquiries as to his doings when he was present, and when those conversational overtures were rebuffed, knew enough not to take it personally, and just leave him to his own devices.

But it was a lonely time for me as well as a physically uncomfortable one. As a physician, I knew that the lowness of spirits brought on by the season was as much a detriment to my health as the cold and the damp. I did my best to fight against it. I forced myself to go out of doors when the weather permitted, even if it was only to the bookseller’s shop on the corner, or the tobacconist’s on Oxford Street. I kept myself well-supplied with books from the lending library as well as the newspapers Holmes left scattered about. I conversed pleasantly with shopkeepers, the local constable, and Mrs. Hudson when time and occasion permitted. Small measures, perhaps, but valuable nonetheless, or so I kept telling myself, even as my gloom continued to weigh me down.

And I bought Holmes a Christmas gift. I had noticed the remnants of his clay pipe in the waste bin one morning, and its habitual place in the pipe-rack remained empty afterwards. A replacement pipe was well within even my straightened means. Part of me wondered if Holmes, knowing my relative paucity of funds, had deliberately left off replacing his broken one so that I might have an inexpensive but needed item to give him. It would not be beyond my strange friend to do so, but it seemed far more likely that he simply had not had time.

Even if he had anticipated me to that extent, he could not have foreseen my fortunate discovery of a cigarette-case that I could also afford. It was small and perfectly plain, but that suited Holmes’ primness of dress. And I well knew that his current case was not only dented and battered (the legacy of a particularly vigorous brawl, or so he told me), but that one hinge was damaged so that it only opened halfway. He certainly would appreciate a new case, as well as the pipe, or so I reasoned to myself when making the purchase.

Now I simply had to hope that Holmes would return to Baker Street long enough for me to give it to him. It lacked but three days to Christmas, and while I could leave his gift for him on the breakfast-table if I must, I much preferred to give it to him in person. I wanted at least that much of the holiday, and of my friend’s companionship. A selfish wish, perhaps, but a heartfelt one.

And yet it seemed a wish doomed to disappointment. I did not see him the next day, or the day following. As I made ready to retire on Christmas Eve, I resignedly placed Holmes’ small, brightly-wrapped package next to his accustomed spot at the table. The colours did not make me cheerful, but rather the opposite.

I did not sleep well that night. My body ached worse than ever, and my very spirit felt bruised. When I finally gave up the attempt to rest, a sharp pattern of frost coated the inside of my bedroom window, dully illuminated by the grey light of another murky dawn. Shivering badly, I pulled on my clothes, wrapped my thin dressing-gown around me for its meagre extra warmth, and hurried downstairs as fast as my stiff leg would allow. I hoped Mrs. Hudson had started the fire early, for I felt half-dead with cold.

The fire was indeed blazing merrily in the grate. Better still, a familiar voice greeted me as I entered the room.

“Happy Christmas, Watson,” Holmes said from the depths of his armchair. His eyes twinkled merrily at me. A cloud of smoke wreathed his face from the clay pipe held between his lips. “This pipe draws most excellently, dear fellow; my deepest thanks. If I had had to go another week with only the cherry-wood and the brier, I might have given up pipes altogether as too much trouble.” One long-fingered hand withdrew the new cigarette-case – my other gift – from his dressing-gown pocket and held it up to the light. “And if I had decided to give up pipes, you made sure that I was well-equipped to make the switch to cigarettes. It was most well thought of, for my old case gave out entirely not two nights ago.” He puffed again, then pulled the pipe from his mouth and used the stem to point to my usual chair across from his, next to the fireside. “I’m afraid I did not have the forethought to have your gift wrapped, Watson, but I hope you will enjoy it just the same.”

“Happy Christmas, Holmes,” I stammered, surprised almost beyond speech. The scene in the sitting-room was so far removed from my bleak expectations, I hardly knew what I was about. I moved towards my chair, and spied a haphazardly-folded pile of what looked like dull brown cloth on the cushion. I picked it up and shook it out, the better to see what it was. The material was soft and warm to the touch, and I realized that it was a new dressing-gown, one far superior to the one I currently wore.

And judging from the heat of it, Holmes must have had it warming by the fire until he heard my tread on the stairs.

“My most recent case was for a tailor,” Holmes went on as I stared at the gown. “A dreadfully tedious affair for the most part, although not entirely without its points of interest. And other points – I believe my fingers will be sore from needle-pricks until after the New Year. But it all concluded well enough. Gregson made the arrest late yesterday. He’ll get the credit, but I got a splendid new winter coat out of the case, so I’ve the better of him there. Plus your present.”

Although Holmes liked to talk when the mood was upon him, it was unlike him to rattle on so. I realized with a start of surprise that he was nervous. His eyes kept flicking from the dressing-gown to my face, as if uncertain of my reaction.

I discarded the old gown at once, and pulled on the new, feeling warmed from head to foot, and not just from the material. “It’s magnificent, Holmes, thank you. Just what I needed.” I could not contain my smile, and Holmes gave me a matching grin. “Happy Christmas.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted December 17, 2012


End file.
